


Cervidae

by lovetincture



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bestiality, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magical Realism, Mental Instability, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Will watches the play of firelight across each antler, each individual ridge is thrown into sharp relief by the shadows. John watches him with flat black eyes, slow and unblinking. His nose twitches, and it’s almost an invitation. Will gets up from the floor and walks to the bed, immediately missing the fire’s warmth as the cold rushes in, chilling his skin again.Will always thought he'd fall in love with a woman, until he met John. His new boyfriend seems perfect—a little odd and kind of quiet, but hey, so is he. Hannibal begs to differ.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Other
Comments: 83
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE NO EXCUSE. Blame Twitter and enjoy the ride.

It had seemed almost too good to be true, meeting John in the woods the way he did. What were the odds? Will doesn’t live where he does because he’s a sociable person who wants to get to know his neighbors. His nearest neighbor is miles away—it was one of the selling points of the house.

John seems just as shocked to see Will, just as surprised to have his solitude disturbed. Maybe Will recognizes something in him, even then. He’s never believed in love at first sight, and he still doesn’t, but there was undeniably something there, some spark. Maybe that’s what makes Will stick out his hand and say, “Hey.”

John stares at him, wary. Will holds very still until he comes closer, eyeing Will up like he’s trying to figure him out. The corner of Will’s mouth twitches upward. It’s not often he meets someone stranger than himself.

John doesn’t shake his hand. In fact he doesn’t say much of anything (Will would realize later that he’s not much of a talker), but he smiles, clear and bright.

It’s beautiful.

After the initial awkwardness, it turns out they get on like a house on fire. They both love the outdoors and find the company of most people to be a bit much. They both like apples.

I mean sure John is taller than him, but it’s not like Will is insecure about that or anything.

* * *

They never really talk about John moving in. It happens in increments, a slow, glacial progression. John spends a lot of time at Will’s house anyway, more and more all the time. If it gets late enough, he’ll stay the night. Will offers to make him a key, but John is stubborn and refuses to take it. It's fine, Will tells him. It's not like John has a lot of stuff anyway. It's not like Will doesn't have more than enough room.

The discussion never goes anywhere. It's like talking to a brick wall, so eventually Will just starts leaving his door unlocked. It’s easier that way, and anyway, it’s not as though anyone’s coming to rob them in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Being with John is easy, easier than any other relationship Will’s ever had. He's not pushy. He doesn’t try to change Will or fix him, doesn’t look at him like a project the way so many of his girlfriends had, in the end. 

Sometimes John takes the couch, and sometimes they share a bed. They haven’t had sex yet, but Will doesn’t push. His dad raised him better than that, and anyway, this is nice. It’s nice to just be with someone, sharing space. Undemanding. Comfortable.

It’s nice to have someone there when he wakes up from nightmares, shivering and drenched in sweat. He comes to with John licking him, gentle strokes of his tongue against the side of Will’s cheek, against his temple, down against the soft skin of his neck. The sound of his own moan startles him. He’s surprised to find that he’s already hard, that he’s close. He tilts his head to give John room, throwing his arms around John’s long neck and running fingers through his hair.

* * *

There’s another night.

John’s antlers are tall and curving, gleaming faintly in the low light. He sits on Will’s bed at the far end of the room, mostly bathed in shadow. He keeps his distance from the fireplace, Will notices. He wonders if John had a traumatic experience with fire as a kid, but it never seems right to pry. John can tell him if he wants. It’s not like he doesn’t have plenty secrets of his own.

Will watches the play of firelight across each antler, each individual ridge is thrown into sharp relief by the shadows. John watches him with flat black eyes, slow and unblinking. His nose twitches, and it’s almost an invitation. Will gets up from the floor and walks to the bed, immediately missing the fire’s warmth as the cold rushes in, chilling his skin again.

He sits down beside John, who barely startles at all.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.” He reaches up to take hold of an antler, rubbing his thumb gently against the place where it meets the ridge of John’s skull. John’s eyes slide shut, and he butts his head up into Will’s hand. “You know I love you, right?”

John whuffs softly.

Will keeps stroking his head, growing bolder as John sighs and relaxes under his hand. He ventures further, scratching behind an ear, and John sighs.

He bites his lip, hesitating. They’ve never gone further than this before. But Will  _ wants _ him. His whole body is lit up with it, a fizzing under his skin, and it’s so easy to slide into John’s lap. 

John startles, eyes gone wide with fear at the sudden movement, but Will gentles him. He hushes him and offers a sugar cube from his pocket, which John laps from his hand, curling a mobile tongue around Will’s fingers. Will moans softly at the sight.

He tugs John’s head up and kisses him. It’s a chaste kiss, a gentle one. John licks lightly at the corner of his mouth. Will reaches down to press his hand against John’s cock, still soft and sheathed between them. He teases it out with his fingers gently, and John shudders beneath him at the first touch.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Will says, murmuring endearments into the coarse fur of his neck. He slides the sheath up and down, squeezing lightly to provide friction. John snorts and bucks up into his hand. “That’s it, good boy.”

He hardens under Will’s hand, growing long and thick until the red tip of his cock juts out from beyond its sheath. Will groans at the feel of it, hot and hard. John’s breath comes faster, and Will stares down between them, watching the blood-red head of a cock disappear and reappear in his grip. He just wants to taste it.

He slides off John’s lap and settles on the floor, kneeling between his legs. His fingers are still wrapped around John’s cock and he pumps it once more before angling it toward his face. John’s musky scent is overwhelming here. His skin is damp and salty when Will sticks out his tongue for a tentative lick. He’s so much bigger than anyone Will’s had before, not that he’s been with all that many men.

Will gives another lick, bolder this time, dragging his tongue up the underside of John’s shaft. John shudders and paws at his back, and Will smiles against his skin. He opens his mouth and takes the tip in. He has to sit up on his knees to reach, and he still can’t get more than half of it in his mouth without choking. That’s okay, he can make do. He uses his hands and hollows his cheeks, working John’s cock in a slow, easy rhythm.

It’s not long before John is panting above him. Will moans around his mouthful and uses his free hand to undo the button of his jeans, making room for his own erection.

John thrusts up into his mouth, chasing his own pleasure heedless of Will, and this is good, he wants it. Will presses the heel of his hand hard into the seam of his jeans as John bucks, his cock spearing down Will’s throat. He gags convulsively around the flesh in his mouth, careful not to bite down. He tries to pull off, but John’s hooves are behind his head, locking him in place, and he can’t do anything to stop it. Tears pour down his cheeks, dripping all over the floor.

He chokes, and John pushes forward. Will breathes through his nose. He stops fighting and lets it happen. Drool leaks out the corners of his lips. It runs down his chin, and he feels absolutely filthy. His jaw aches and he lets it go slack, lets John rut into his throat and breathes and tries not to cry.

His throat is raw by the time he feels the first spurt of come hit the back of it. John is panting hard above him, flooding his mouth in pulses, in time like a heartbeat. It’s bitter and thick and Will half swallows, half chokes on it.

John finally lets him go, his softening cock slipping out of Will’s mouth with a wet plop, and Will pulls back coughing and gasping. He spits out a gob of come, wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. His whole face is wet, sloppy with come, tears, and spit.

“What the fuck,” Will hoarses out when he can talk again. His voice is ruined, and John doesn’t even offer to get him a glass of water. “What was that?”

John says nothing, merely watches him, impassive. Will follows John’s gaze down to his own lap where a wet stain is spreading. He feels his cheeks heat and has the fleeting urge to cover himself with his hands.

“It doesn’t matter that I liked it. You can’t just—” John blinks at him. Will sighs. “No, of course. I’m sorry, I’m not mad. I’ll just—”

He cleans himself up in the bathroom, careful not to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

* * *

He hasn’t been avoiding Alana, exactly. Not specifically and not deliberately, any more than you could say he’s been avoiding everyone else (he has been). In the end it doesn’t actually matter because she ambushes him in his classroom, a lone salmon swimming against the tide while his students filter out as quick as they can, eager for the weekend.

There was something else she was going to say. He watches it wither and die on her lips the second she catches sight of him. He knows what she’s seeing—black eye, split lip. He angles himself away, self-conscious as he shuffles his notes together and piles them into his bag alongside his laptop.

Alana is undeterred.

“Will! Oh my god, what happened to your face?” She has his jaw in her hand before he can get a word in edgewise, before he can pull away, gentle fingers turning his face toward the light.

“Nothing. I was running with my dogs and I tripped.”

The room is silent for long seconds.

“Again?”

“Guess so.” He tries on an expression that feels like a smile. It probably isn’t from the way Alana’s expression only darkens further.

Her mouth sets in a grim line. “If someone is hurting you—”

“They’re not.” He hefts his bag onto his shoulder. He can tell there’s more she wants to say, but he leaves her in the empty classroom with every one of those things still hanging unspoken. “Bye, Alana.”

He’s fine. And if he moves a little more slowly, if there are bruises over his ribs in the shape of perfect cloven hooves, well. Stranger things have happened.

He doesn’t really go out anymore—not that he had much of a social life to begin with, but John likes to make sure comes home right after work. He still goes to his therapy appointments, though. John doesn’t like it but hasn’t outright forbid Will from going, and that’s all he needs, really.

He isn’t sure what he’d do if John did forbid him from seeing Hannibal. He’s not sure if he’d argue, if he’d decide it was worth starting a fight over, broken glass, screaming and crying, no sleep all night. He isn’t sure it’s worth the bruises—but it doesn’t matter because it hasn’t come to that. Small favors.

His mind is still somewhere else when Hannibal invites him in. It must have been, because he blinks and he’s sitting across from Hannibal in his office, halfway to boneless as he melts into one of Hannibal’s plush leather chairs. He tilts his head back and sighs.

“Will?”

He sits up, sheepish, wondering how much he missed. “Sorry, I must have dozed off. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you’ve been sleepwalking again.”

Will shakes his head slowly.

“I take it you haven’t been sleeping well?”

“Actually, I’ve been sleeping better.” The corner of Will’s lip quirks up as a memory filters through, he and John curled up together, long fur beneath his fingers and warm breath on his face.

“Where did you just go?” Hannibal asks.

“Nowhere,” Will says. Hannibal waits, patiently, until the dam breaks open a little further. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

“Oh?”

Will could swear he sees a look flit across Hannibal’s face, something dark and possessive, but in the next instant it’s nothing more than the polite, impassive expression Hannibal always wears, newly tinged with concern. Maybe it was just a trick of the light.

“This is the first time you’ve mentioned it.”

Will shrugs, slouching further into his seat. “It didn’t seem relevant. I’m here to talk about work, right? You’re here to make sure I don’t go too far off the deep end.” His mouth twists bitterly. “Just far enough that Jack can reel me back in when he needs me again.”

He expects Hannibal to latch onto that—to ask Will if he feels like a hooked fish, so he’s caught off guard when Hannibal doesn’t.

“In my experience, most people don’t have such neat distinctions between the spheres of their lives.”

“The professional bleeds into the personal?”

“In your case more than most, perhaps, although I’d hazard to say it’s merely a question of degrees. Of course the opposite is also true. Your relationships affect your work, how you perceive yourself, how you choose to organize your life.”

Will makes a noncommittal sound. Hannibal gets up from his chair—the first time Will can remember him doing so in all the time they’ve been having  _ conversations— _ and stops in front of Will. He raises his fingers to the bruised skin beneath Will’s eye. He doesn’t touch, but holds his hand so close that Will can feel it anyway, like a phantom caress.

He tells himself that his breath doesn’t catch in his throat. That he doesn’t lean back, pressing into the backrest to get away from the electricity he feels from Hannibal’s skin so near to his own.

Hannibal drops his hand to his side, and Will breathes a small sigh of relief, audible in the stillness.

“You didn’t get hurt working for Uncle Jack.”

There’s not a lick of pity in Hannibal’s voice. There’s nothing but undisguised curiosity, and maybe that’s why Will doesn’t bolt. He holds Hannibal’s gaze for long seconds—just long enough to prove he isn’t sure what before letting his eyes skitter away.

“I didn’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I was wrong about this only being two chapters long. I don't expect this will be a very long story, but there will indeed be more chapters beyond this one.

It’s not like John wants to hurt him. He just doesn’t know his own strength. He’s not used to living in such close quarters with another person (neither is Will, but you don’t see him taking swings at anybody). Will offers to clean out the actual bedroom to give them more space, but John refuses to set foot upstairs.

He’d like to pretend he doesn’t heave a small sigh of relief at that. He hadn’t really wanted to move the bed anyway, too much a creature of habit.

“Did your partner hit you?” Hannibal asks.

“Yes,” Will says, slowly. “For a given value of ‘hit.’”

“How do you feel about that?”

Will snorts, the question cracking something loose in him. He rises to his feet and brushes past Hannibal, coming to stand beside the window with his hands in his pockets. “Kind of a cliche, isn’t that, doctor?”

“Some cliches exist because they’re useful. Did it make you feel angry when he hit you?” Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze crawling along his back, imagines he can feel it prickling along his neck where it’s exposed between his collar and curls. “Did you feel relieved?”

“He?” Will asks. They both know he’s avoiding the question. “There’s an assumption.”

“Am I wrong?”

“It made me feel…” He huffs a laugh. Talking about how it makes him _feel_ feels stupid. “Safe. Like nothing else could happen to me. Like I didn’t have to punish myself, because someone else was already doing it for me.”

He looks at Hannibal, daring him to tell him how fucked up he already knows it is. Daring him to offer to get Will help, to tell him there are resources available to him.

Hannibal just tilts his head, a fractional adjustment as he takes Will in from a new angle.

“That’s not terribly uncommon. A great many people take comfort in the sharper extremes of sensation. I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest there are ways to indulge in it safely.”

“You’re suggesting, what? BDSM?”

“Are you familiar with the practice?”

Will makes a noncommittal noise. “More or less. I’ve tried it, if that’s what you’re asking. Not a fan.”

“Why is that?”

“It felt phony. Performative.”

“The sensations are the same, are they not?”

Will shakes his head, turning back to the window. Outside, cars crawl by in rush hour traffic. “It’s not about that. I don’t have a thing for pain. It’s about… letting someone else call the shots. Letting someone else be in control, letting them do what they want to me. Whatever they want to me, while I just float.”

Hannibal is right behind him when he turns around, so close their faces are almost touching, and Will startles. He hadn’t heard Hannibal’s approach at all. There’s something there, something _off,_ but Will doesn’t have time to connect the loose end of that thought, doesn’t have time for anything before his brain shorts out, because Hannibal is snaking a hand up to his throat.

Hannibal’s hand is big, solid when he presses it to the tender skin of Will’s throat. His fingers curl easily around the side of Will’s neck. Proprietary, like they do this all the time.

He presses, but just barely. It’s nothing more than the suggestion of pressure, insubstantial without any real weight behind it. Will’s breath catches in his throat all the same.

“You want someone to hurt you, and you don’t want the responsibility of telling them to stop,” Hannibal says, voice pitched low and hypnotic.

A thin whine escapes Will’s throat. He clamps his teeth shut, but the damage is already done. He can feel his cheeks burning, and he sways on his feet, leaning into Hannibal’s grip to feel the shocky sensation of having his air cut off completely. Hannibal stays perfectly still, neither helping nor hindering him. Will’s eyelashes flutter closed, and he’s painfully hard by the time he finds the presence of mind to step back.

He half expects Hannibal to follow him, but Hannibal does no such thing. He lets Will go, lets him slip through his fingers easy as anything. There’s a hollow ache in the center of Will’s gut, a madness that makes him want to step back into Hannibal’s space, to let Hannibal invade his. _Wait,_ he wants to say. _Don’t stop._

He swallows hard and pretends he doesn’t have a raging hard-on. He puts more space between them. He feels balanced on the point of a knife, a hairsbreadth away from making a terrible decision.

Hannibal still doesn’t follow. He tries not to feel disappointed when Hannibal simply takes his seat, an arm extended in an invitation for Will to do the same. He does, eventually, feeling as skittish and recalcitrant as one of his own dogs.

“What was that?” Will asks when he trusts himself to speak without embarrassing himself again.

“I was testing a theory.”

Will laughs, a bitter rasp of a thing. “What’s the theory? That I’m a freak who’ll spread ‘em for anyone who treats me mean?”

“Crass, Will.” The words shouldn’t sound so much like a caress. “You seem to have a sexual response to submission and fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Hannibal smiles. “No, I don’t suppose that you are. I expect you’re afraid of the implications such a situation present. A person in a position of authority making sexual advances—not just any person, a man, which I believe you have some reservations about. Not to mention the potential for infidelity, and yourself with such a volatile partner. I imagine the combination of those realities could produce quite a considerable amount of fear.”

The mention of his _partner_ hits Will straight in the gut. His heart starts pounding, and he feels dizzy with a sudden bloom of fear.

It’s gotten late while they’ve been talking. The sun is long gone, nothing but blackness and the cold glow of streetlights beyond the windows. Will checks his watch. He’s been in Hannibal’s office for over two hours.

“Shit.”

Hannibal looks up, mild disapproval written over his face at the curse. “Is there a problem?”

He stands even as he asks the question, rebuttoning his jacket and getting ready to see Will out—he knew, of course. Of the two of them, Hannibal hadn’t lost track of the time.

Will’s eyes narrow. “I’m late.”

Hannibal cocks his head. “Will your partner punish you for it?"

His mouth is suddenly dry, and he flexes his fingers. Licks his lips. “Maybe. Probably.”

Hannibal smiles kindly as he hands Will his coat. “You’d better hurry home then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the tags.

John is angry when Will gets home. He hadn’t expected anything less. John’s anger is quiet and cold, a slow-burning rage that’s honestly more frightening than if he’d just start yelling and throwing things. Will’s dad was a yeller. Some part of Will deep-buried in the light of day longs for it, for the familiar comfort of knowing what to expect.

But John just watches him, watches Will take off his coat and hang it up, watches him set his bag down on the kitchen table. Eyes follow him around the house, and it’s all he can do not to shudder under their weight. Even the dogs skitter around the corners of the room, keeping to the edges. Their ears are flattened to their heads, tails tucked between their legs as they whine.

Will reaches down to comfort one, smoothing his hand over a silky, quivering head. “It’s okay, buddy,” he murmurs. “I know, it’s okay.”

Where were you? John asks.

“I have therapy on Fridays. We were talking and lost track of time.” He gives Winston one last pat and straightens.

There’s a moment, just one, where Will thinks it might end differently this time. That John might let it go, that he’ll understand. They can curl up on the bed and watch the snow that’s started to fall, and it might be a nice night after all.

John doesn’t shove him against the wall so much as he oozes into Will’s space. He bends his head to Will’s neck, nostrils flaring.

I can smell him all over you, John says.

“It was nothing. Nothing happened.”

Liar.

Will tries to brush past him, and he’s crowded back against the wall. The dogs whine in the corner, their nails scrabbling against the floorboards.

John’s eyes glint black. He snaps his teeth near Will’s face, and surely Will can’t be blamed for flinching the way he does.

Take off your clothes, John says, and Will doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t matter what Will wants. He wants to be good instead of such a fuck up. And he’s trying, but he did it again, didn’t he?

He probably deserves this.

He probably deserves the way his fingers stutter over the buttons, the way he trips as he toes off his shoes, the way John bares his teeth because he’s taking too long.

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It almost feels good to be sorry in the face of such an implacable god.

I bet you sucked his cock, John says. I bet you let him mount you like the needy bitch you are.

Will pales. “I didn’t. I promise I didn’t. I didn’t touch him.”

Maybe you’ve forgotten who you belong to.

“I didn’t, I haven’t. I’m only for you, I swear. I’m sorry.”

There’s no lube for him because why would there be?

Lube is for good boys, John says. Will can take it dry since he’s such a fucking slut.

He’s not gentle. They don’t even make it to the bed. John pushes Will down onto the floor and gets on top of him, pinning him under his weight. John is heavy, and Will feels crushed beneath him. It’s hard to breathe, and he can’t help it—he struggles. John makes him settle with a hard bite to the back of the neck. He grips Will in his teeth, shaking him until he goes still and slack.

Will stops fighting but every muscle in his body is taut. He’s breathing hard. The floorboards dig into his knees, and he makes a low, terrified sound at the feeling of John’s breath against his ear.

John spreads Will’s cheeks, hauling him up onto his knees and bearing him back down to the ground as he thrusts in. It’s a bright, blinding sort of pain somewhere between the feeling of a punch to the gut and getting torn open, and Will screams.

John chuckles nastily into his ear. Do you like that, little bitch? It’s what you deserve, isn’t it?

Will moans, shaking his head. There’s a gathering wetness at the corners of his eyes, an involuntary bodily reaction like the one that makes his cock leak between his thighs, stiffening with interest in spite of all the ways he doesn’t want this.

It doesn’t matter what he wants.

John presses in cruelly, driving himself deep inside, so deep Will can feel it in his toes. The pain pulses through him, radiating out from one central point. He feels sick with it. John drags his cock against Will’s prostate on the outstroke, drawing a long, broken moan from him.

It’s worse when it feels good, when Will can’t even cling to the clean sensation of pain.

John thrusts steadily into him, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. Be a good boy, you can take it. You don’t need anyone’s cock but mine, do you?

Will cries.

Do you? John asks.

He shakes his head and cries, and John hushes him through it, licking at his tears and fucking into him tenderly.

Gonna make you forget all about him, baby. I’m gonna make you feel good. It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t cry.

It hurts no matter how gentle he is. John is massive, and Will feels scraped raw. He clenches his fingers against the floorboards and breathes through his nose. He lets his mind float, imagines a stream.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

* * *

It goes on until it stops. Will lies on the floor in the aftermath, too sick to bother getting up. It’s better if he doesn’t move. If he can just stay perfectly still, so still he doesn’t  _ breathe, _ it almost doesn’t hurt.

John is patient with him, pushing back his hair and petting his forehead. He’s patient until he isn’t, until Will’s cringing shudders become too inconvenient. Until he’s more of a roadblock than something to be pitied and the well of John’s compassion runs dry.

Come on, he says. It wasn’t that bad. You’re being dramatic.

Will curls further into himself. The noise hurts as much as the movement. The sound of John’s voice is hard to tune out. It tethers him into his body in a way that’s uncomfortable, unwanted. He turns his head away from the light, tucks it under the crook of an elbow.

He’s wrenched up by the arm, jerked upright despite his noise of protest.

Get  _ up. _ You’re acting like a child. Stop being such a baby about it.

He stumbles to his feet because it’s better than the alternative, because he thinks John might wrench his shoulder out of its socket if he doesn’t, and he doesn’t really want to explain a dislocated shoulder.

He makes it as far as the bed before going boneless again. John sighs but doesn’t say anything.

There are a few minutes of rustling and stomping feet, where Will cringes every time he hears a loud noise, a sudden movement. He stares at the wall, tracing the imperfections in the paint and devoutly doesn’t look. 

Eventually John turns out the light.

He doesn’t come to bed right away, but Will can tell he’s trying to keep quiet, walking delicately as his hooves click through the house. Will hears the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, the sound of a can of beer hissing open. He folds himself into the cool dark, and John lets him, and it’s almost as good as an apology.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but at some point he must. He’s woken by the dip of the mattress, John’s body sliding into bed beside his. John curls his body around Will’s, and Will twitches. Caught in the twilight of half-waking, he can’t tell if he’s trying to press closer or get away.

He turns his face into John’s chest and holds him tight.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal doesn’t follow Will right away. Distracted as he is, sick as he is, he’s still a law enforcement officer who’s likely to notice such a thing. So Hannibal waits. He writes notes, filling in a few stray observations about Will’s mental state. He waits until 9:30 before getting into his car.

Hannibal isn’t sure what he expects to find. He’s curious, of course. He wants to see what type of man would pique Will’s interest. Before tonight, he would have assumed any man to catch Will’s eye would be the analog of Alana Bloom, delicately beautiful with a savior complex, a drive to heal and not harm. He’d made adjustments to his mental model, of course, in light of the way Will had trembled when Hannibal had wrapped a hand around his throat.

He was still shockingly wrong.

Very few things genuinely surprise Hannibal, but, well. He wasn’t expecting  _ this. _

The lights are on in Will’s house, and his curtains are open. Will himself is alone, writhing naked on the floor.

At first Hannibal thinks Will may be having another seizure. The veins in his neck stand out in sharp relief against his sweaty skin, and his face is contorted in a grimace. He appears to be in no immediate harm, so Hannibal is content merely to observe. To interrupt him and disrupt the show would be a shame.

If he has a regret in this moment, it’s the thickness of Will’s windows, which let no sound through at all. He can see Will’s lips moving, shaping words and parting around wordless sounds, and Hannibal would very much like to hear all of it. He would construct a room in his memory palace in its honor.

The air is cold tonight, but Hannibal has the benefit of a good coat and sufficient motivation. He watches Will with rapt interest.

He stands outside for quite a long time before Will stops thrashing and lies still. He pulls himself into the fetal position, lying motionless for long enough that Hannibal assumes he’s fallen asleep. He’s about to reach for the doorknob when there’s some movement. Will lifts an arm, clawing at the air. He lifts his head and the rest of his body follows as he gets up and staggers to his bed.

He collapses face down into it and doesn’t get up again, and that’s fine. Hannibal can wait a while more. He had no other plans for the evening.

He recalls a particular opera he’d once enjoyed as he waits. One he’d seen in Paris years ago. He makes it to the second act before the tension leaches from Will’s body, before his limbs go lax and pliant in sleep.

This time, Hannibal does not pause before letting himself into Will’s home.

By some chance of fate, the power cuts out just as he opens the door.

The first thing he registers is the scent of sex lingering in the air, cloying and animal. He breathes deep, taking it in. The second is that Will is crying. He freezes, unsure what to do with this. It’s not that Will has never cried in his presence, but he has usually been the cause. 

Announcing his arrival would probably alarm Will. Instead, Hannibal finds his way by the thin light streaming in through the windows. He quietly unlaces his shoes and slips them off, lining them up at the foot of the bed. He hangs his coat and unbuttons first his jacket, then his waistcoat, draping them over a chair and smoothing out the wrinkles before climbing into bed.

* * *

This was all getting way too weird for the deer.

It’s been weird for a while, if he’s being perfectly honest, but it’s just so hard to meet people these days. So what if the first man he’d met smelled like sickness and rot and talked to things that weren’t there? So what if he says the most horrifying things in his sleep?

It’s been a long time. So the deer had wanted a little comfort, had wanted to eat it out of somebody’s hand. So sue him.

But now there’s something  _ else _ in the bed, something murmuring words too soft for the deer to hear even with pricked ears.  _ It _ smells like blood in a way that bodes ill—positively reeks of it—and the deer wonders that the man can’t smell it. The deer knows a wolf when he sees one. He knows to keep well away. He wonders that the man doesn’t.

_ Who raised you? _ the deer wants to ask.  _ Who didn’t teach you to stay away from things with sharp teeth? _

The deer gets up very, very carefully. The bed creaks under his weight no matter how slowly he moves, but neither of them notice as he slips quietly from the covers. He feels a pang for how little they notice. He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s drafty on the outside, cold without body heat to warm him. He thinks of the woods, cold and vast.

He looks at the bed where they cling with hushed voices.

The man kept calling him John, but the deer doesn’t think of himself as anything but a deer.  _ John _ was loved and hated. John is someone else.

He knows who he is. He knows where he belongs. This was a vacation, maybe. A story he can tell himself when the nights get cold and company is nothing more than a remembered shade, shadows moving on the wall.

He thinks about saying goodbye. The sound of gently creaking bedsprings persuades him otherwise.

The deer pauses in the doorway, wondering whether or not he should warn him.

_ He’s not what you think. This is going to end so badly. _

A draft comes in when he opens the door to let himself out. He ducks his antlers under the doorframe. It will probably be fine.

The deer is sure he’ll figure it out eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


End file.
